


Goodnight, Frankreich

by xtrachocolatechips



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Angst, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Slut Shaming, emetophobia warning
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-09
Updated: 2015-02-09
Packaged: 2018-03-11 06:45:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,637
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3317903
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/xtrachocolatechips/pseuds/xtrachocolatechips
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A repost from ff.net. </p><p>"<em>After a long night at the bar, Prussia drags a slightly-drunken France back to his hotel room. It is there that he learns something about the Frenchman that changes his view of him forever.</em>"</p>
            </blockquote>





	Goodnight, Frankreich

“ _Prusse_ —“

“Say one more thing and I will not hesitate to smack you, or so help me God.”

This is why from then on, France chooses to watch him work in silence.  He is transfixed by the TV behind them painting constantly changing colors on the sides of Gilbert’s pale face; by the way his calloused fingers carefully wind gauze over trails of ruby running down his hand. There is whiskey still lingering inside of him, however, so everything around him is muted save for the other’s voice.

It is dark in his hotel room. It is dark, quiet, and they are both very tired.

But Francis refuses to show that, instead gluing a plastic smile to his face right when he first gets the chance to. When Prussia is finished, he withdraws slowly and regards his expression with disgust. “The Country of Love that _I_ know doesn’t get in bar fights,” he starts, glaring daggers at him. “The France _I_ know doesn’t go around breaking beer bottles like a fucking lunatic.” The “France he knows” is also an innocent nation who doesn’t think of anything important unless it has to do with wine, cheese, or sex.

“I am drunk,” Francis deadpans without even missing a beat. (And this is technically a lie, because he is currently stuck in that blur that a little bit of tipsiness can induce, but far from the level in which one person has had entirely too much to drink.) Without him meaning for them to, his eyes begin to stalk his best friend as he gets up to turn off the TV. They coast down the slope of his neck and the curve of his back, but stop short at the beginnings of his backside when he wonders if he would even eye Gilbert like that if he were a little more sober. (The answer is yes; he would, and has done so in the past.)

“What did Roderich say that was so terrible?”  The albino is oblivious as always as he drones on. When he turns back to see that Francis has now hidden his face in his hands, his whole body shaking with quiet sobs, the remote Gilbert is holding escapes from his grip and lands on the carpet with a dull _thud._ The abrupt anomalousness of the situation hits him like a brick and in less than a second, he is kneeling in front of him.  His hand reaches out, hesitant. Pulls away, throat growing thick with worry. “Francis?”

He would respond if he could even breathe, but he cannot because he is ensnared in a nightmare that he does not want to live through ever again. France feels nothing, only hears his own screams echoing through his ears—

_—the liquid is burning him as it’s forced into his mouth and there are hands grabbing at him from every angle so now he’s biting, kicking, wailing at the top of his lungs—_

—and then the words comes back, oh god, and how they just _fucking snapped him in half_ —

“ _Perhaps if you weren’t always asking for it_ ,” Austria had slurred, “ _whatever it was that they did to you during World War II wouldn’t have happened, correct?”_

Francis caves in, hunches over, and vomits.

 

xXx

 

They hadn’t spoken for twenty years after that second war, because Gilbert had to cope with the dissolution of his country, and Francis had gone out of his way to narrowly avoid both he and his brother at all costs.

Prussia does not know _why_ Francis avoided both he and his brother back then.

(So, in other words, Prussia does not know what they did to France during his imprisonment.)

Yet his curiosity returns with a vengeance whilst he comforts him, sweeping his golden hair away from his face with one hand, and rubbing the small of his back with his other as Francis crumples into pieces from the inside out. The walls of the bathroom are too suffocating; they are closing in on them both and making Gilbert feel extremely claustrophobic— no, afraid. He stares at the marble of the bathtub, memorizes every scratch and crevice in it, until the retched sounds France has been making quietly cease.

Gilbert does not speak right away because his tongue is now a block of heavy sandpaper in his mouth. Instead, he pulls a furiously trembling Francis into his arms, and the two of them expose sides of themselves to each other that neither one of them has seen before. The Frenchman is broken. He holds onto Prussia like a lifeline, so hard that his nails pierce through his skin. Tears, apologies, and jumbled words about stupid wars spill from him so quickly that the other can do nothing but embrace him and wonder _why_. Why this was happening, why France couldn’t tell him, and what he had done to trigger him like so.

There is something straining to burst from the back of his mind. He knows that it is the reason, buried deep back there. Somewhere, deep within him, he knows the answers to his questions, but is not ready to face them yet. 

“Do you want to talk about it?” He asks once it’s silent again. The question resonates off those tightly closing in walls.

Francis draws away. Smiles warily, shakes his head. His sentences sort of string together as he explains to Gilbert that he wants him to pretend that this never happened, that he never witnessed this— this— well, whatever it was. The albino lies when agrees with his proposal. He stands and helps him up, and it is in that moment when he realizes just how fragile Francis is for the first time; his hand is smooth, firm, but shaking like a leaf as it slides into his.

After Gilbert’s own hand nearly slips as it flushes the toilet, they are finally able to escape the suppressing bathroom together at last. Another plastic smile is slapped onto France’s face by the time the both of them have regained the ability to breathe (Francis keeps inhaling something bitter, but Prussia is only exhaling of relief).

The hotel room is still dark, they are both exhausted now, and the silence between them is broken only when the plastic smile suggests that they play a game of Uno (“ _Of all games_ ,” Prussia later thinks,) before bed.  France disappears and then reemerges from the bedroom jostling a deck of cards in hand. “Just don’t get angry when I beat you,” he warns, and for some reason, Prussia never forgets how the light seeping into the room through the halfway closed bedroom door dyes his hair an unnaturally bright shade of blonde.

Time gradually leaks through their fingers as they play. France won’t stop talking all throughout it—he taunts Prussia, occasionally throwing a perverted or flirtatious remark at him to make it seem like nothing has changed since the time he had been dragged into his hotel room. When the clock strikes sometime around 1AM, Francis nods his head once, twice, and flutters his eyes close for the last time that night, giving in to the oncoming heavy slumber that had been looming over his shoulder for quite some time. (The only card left in his hand floats to his lap as he succumbs to the comfort of the sofa; before Prussia carries him to bed, he examines it and notes that indeed, Francis would have beaten him if he’d stayed awake for a few seconds longer.)

A ten-ton weight is pressing down on his lungs as he watches France, tucked tightly in his bed. Curled within himself under the sheets, he is a ball. His eyes are _clenched_ close now and he breathes laboriously as if he is in unspeakable, internal pain; the short bursts of air constantly escaping his lips are almost always raspy and sporadic.

Gilbert itches to know what illness is impaling him. Like all the others, he possesses the overwhelming urge to take his hand in his and pull Francis out of the shrouded abyss that he is trying _so hard_ not to fall into. But also like the others, his skepticism makes him hesitant to do so.

A mindless whisper worms its way into the dark. “You’re an idiot,” he mumbles, but he does not know if he is referring to himself or to France. Perhaps it was better that he didn’t.

Did he really have the right to speak up about things he didn’t know too much about? On a normal occasion he would have told himself yes, but this was obviously a more severe situation that could easily produce equally severe consequences.

So, who could he talk to? A therapist? A fellow country? His brother? Definitely not.  England? Maybe. As loud-mouthed and annoying as he was, Prussia still had the sense to help a friend in need when the time really demanded it.

He finds that his feet can move all on their own, and is lingering at Francis’ bedside before he can think not to. By this point, it has dawned on him that only a select few must know about whatever it was that triggered Francis— Roderich, Ludwig, and now himself. He wants to alert everyone about it. He wants everyone to be aware of how much pain Francis is in to prevent situations like these from ever happening again.

He does not want Francis to be hurt anymore, or ever again for that matter.

 _Some things shouldn’t stay hidden forever,_ he concludes to himself. His right index finger is loosely playing with one of the Frenchman’s darkened, yellow curls. _If no one is willing to say something about this first, I will._

With the tenderness of a motherly figure, Prussia leans down to press his lips, feather light, to France’s forehead.

“Goodnight, _Frankreich_.”

**Author's Note:**

> This is a pretty old one, but I'm still really proud of it, ahaha.
> 
> [My Writing Blog ](http://www.xtrachocolatechips.tumblr.com)


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